FOR SALE: ONE VAMPIRE - Chapter One: The Coffin
Chapter One of the blockbuster new horror novel, FOR SALE: ONE VAMPIRE by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
FOR SALE: ONE VAMPIRE
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
Chapter One: The Coffin
The first sign that something was wrong came when they crested the final ridge and laid eyes on the village below. Unlike the bombed-out husks of other settlements they had passed—places where walls stood like jagged teeth and blackened timbers clawed at the sky—this village seemed untouched. It stood serene and whole, a jarring anomaly amidst the surrounding devastation. The afternoon sunlight bathed the neatly arranged stone and clay houses, their red-tiled roofs intact and unblemished. The streets were wide and clear, flanked by crumbling but strangely untouched market stalls, as if the villagers had simply stepped away for a moment and never returned.
The platoon halted, uneasy. Sergeant Yilmaz pulled out his binoculars, scanning the horizon and the village itself for movement. “No signs of activity,” he muttered, his brow furrowed. “No smoke, no vehicles, no people.”
“But it’s not damaged,” Private Kemal said, lowering his rifle slightly. “How’s that possible? Every other place we’ve been to was rubble.”
“Maybe it’s a ghost town,” Corporal Arslan offered. His voice was light, but his eyes darted nervously across the pristine rooftops. “Could be abandoned before the fighting reached here.”
The suggestion didn’t sit well with the others. There was something about the village that felt wrong—off in a way none of them could articulate. It wasn’t just the silence, though that was unnerving enough. It was the stillness. Even from a distance, they could see that nothing moved within the streets. No fluttering laundry on a line, no livestock grazing in pens or tied to posts. The village had the look of a painting rather than a real place, frozen in time.
“STAY ALERT!” Yilmaz ordered, snapping them out of their reverie.
“Something isn’t right…”
The platoon advanced cautiously down the rocky path leading to the outskirts of the village. The closer they got, the heavier the air seemed to grow, as if the very atmosphere were resisting their approach. A faint tang of iron hung in the air, subtle but persistent, as if carried on a breeze they couldn’t feel.
The first building they approached was a small farmhouse with an open doorway. The wooden shutters on its windows hung slightly ajar, revealing a cozy interior that seemed frozen in mid-motion. A cooking pot still sat on the hearth, blackened with soot but devoid of food. A table stood in the center of the room, set for a meal that had never been eaten. Plates, cups, and utensils were arranged neatly, untouched by dust or decay.
Private Demir stepped inside, rifle at the ready. His boots echoed against the stone floor, each step sounding louder than it should have in the eerie stillness. “It’s like they just… left,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Check upstairs,” Yilmaz said, motioning to the wooden staircase that led to the upper level.
Demir nodded, ascending carefully. He opened the first door he came to, revealing a child’s room. A small bed sat against the wall, its blanket neatly tucked. Toys were scattered across the floor—a wooden horse, a cloth doll with button eyes, a set of carved blocks spelling out words in Arabic. Demir lingered for a moment, staring at the doll’s blank expression before stepping back out into the hall.
Down below, Yilmaz and the others were searching the main floor. Every cupboard, every drawer, every corner was as it should have been—neatly organized, but empty of personal belongings. No clothing, no valuables, no photographs. It was as though someone had meticulously packed away the essence of the house, leaving only the shell behind.
“Sergeant,” Demir called from upstairs, his voice trembling slightly. “There’s no one here. But… it doesn’t feel empty.”
Yilmaz’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. He could feel it too—that strange, oppressive presence, like a weight pressing against the back of his skull. He gestured for the platoon to move on, his instincts screaming at him to leave the farmhouse behind.
The rest of the village was the same. House after house, shop after shop, each one eerily preserved. A blacksmith’s forge still held tools on its anvil, as if the smith had been called away mid-strike. The bakery’s stone oven was cool and lifeless, but the shelves still held loaves of bread, hard as rock but otherwise unspoiled.
“What the hell happened here?” Kemal muttered, his rifle twitching in his hands.
“No signs of a fight,” Arslan observed, kicking at the dirt road. “No bullet casings, no scorch marks, no bodies. It’s like they just vanished.”
The plaza in the center of the village was dominated by a dry fountain, its stone basin carved with intricate patterns. A cracked statue of a hooded figure stood in the center, its outstretched hands holding what looked like an empty bowl. The sight of it made the soldiers uneasy, though none of them could say why.
“It’s too clean,” Demir said, breaking the silence. “Even if they evacuated, there’d be something left behind—trash, carts, anything.”
Yilmaz nodded grimly. “Spread out. Look for anything that can tell us what happened here. And stay in pairs.”
As the men fanned out, the sense of unease deepened. The village was deserted, but it didn’t feel abandoned. The buildings stood like silent sentinels, their empty windows staring back at the soldiers like watchful eyes. The absence of life felt unnatural, as though something had actively removed it, leaving only the shells of a once-living place.
And then, near the edge of the village, they found the warehouse.
It loomed over the smaller buildings, a hulking structure of weathered wood and corrugated metal. Its doors were slightly ajar, the rusted chain lock hanging loosely as if recently disturbed. A faint chill emanated from within, causing the soldiers to hesitate on the threshold.
“Sergeant,” Arslan said, his voice tight with tension. “I don’t think we should go in there.”
But Yilmaz didn’t answer. He was staring at the ground just outside the doors. There, half-buried in the dirt, were footprints—not the wide, uneven prints of boots, but long, claw-like impressions that seemed to sink unnaturally deep into the earth.
Yilmaz tightened his grip on his rifle. Whatever had happened to the village, whatever had driven its people away, had left its mark here.
“Stay close,” he said finally, stepping into the warehouse.
Behind him, the others followed, their footsteps hesitant, their breaths shallow. None of them noticed how the wind outside suddenly stopped—or how the faint whispers began the moment the door closed behind them.
The warehouse was a massive, brooding structure that seemed to lean toward them as they approached. Its walls were made of warped wood, darkened with age and streaked with black stains that might have been water—or something else. Corrugated metal sheets covered parts of the exterior, their edges jagged and rusted, adding to the building’s menacing appearance. Vines crept up the sides, their brittle leaves crackling faintly in the still air. The doors hung slightly ajar, as though beckoning the soldiers inside, and the rusted chain lock dangled uselessly, its links snapped clean in half.
As they stepped closer, the stench hit them—a heavy, metallic tang that clung to the back of their throats. It was the smell of blood, thick and cloying, mixed with something older and fouler. It wasn’t fresh; it reeked of iron and decay, as though it had seeped into the very wood of the structure over decades, refusing to fade. The smell grew stronger the closer they got, so oppressive that some of the soldiers paused to gag, covering their mouths and noses with their sleeves.
Inside, the warehouse was dark, the feeble beams of sunlight that crept through the gaps in the walls doing little to penetrate the gloom. The air was colder here, biting and damp, as if the building exhaled a long-dead breath. Their boots crunched over a layer of debris—broken glass, splinters of wood, and unidentifiable detritus that seemed to coat the floor like ash. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the space, but no source was visible.
Private Kemal flicked on his flashlight, and the beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating a scene that none of them could have prepared for.
The warehouse was filled with shelves and crates, but these were no ordinary supplies. The shelves sagged under the weight of ancient tomes bound in cracked leather, their spines embossed with strange symbols that seemed to writhe under the beam of the flashlight. Open crates spilled their contents onto the floor—candlesticks adorned with grotesque, twisted designs; jars filled with murky, viscous fluids that seemed to ripple as the soldiers passed; and carvings of unholy figures, their faces contorted in expressions of agony or ecstasy.
A cluster of objects in one corner drew their attention. Tall wooden stakes, blackened and splintered, stood propped against the wall. They were stained dark with something that looked disturbingly like dried blood, and fragments of cloth and rope still clung to some of them, as though whatever had been tied there had been ripped away violently.
On another shelf lay an array of knives and ceremonial daggers, their blades jagged and inscribed with intricate markings. Many of them were encrusted with rust—or perhaps old blood—that had eaten into the metal. The handles were carved from bone, smooth and polished, their surfaces yellowed with age.
The pervading smell of blood grew stronger the deeper they ventured, mingling with the scent of mildew and something chemical, sharp and acrid. Private Demir paused near a wooden crate that had been left half-open. He shone his light inside and recoiled, stumbling back.
“What is it?” Arslan demanded, rushing over.
Demir didn’t answer, pointing wordlessly at the contents. Arslan leaned in cautiously, his own light revealing a pile of rags that at first glance seemed innocuous. But as he looked closer, he realized the rags were not rags at all—they were strips of skin, flayed and dried, their edges curling.
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, the silence between them filled with their shallow, panicked breathing.
At the center of the warehouse, a large, makeshift altar dominated the space. It was a slab of dark stone, rough-hewn and glistening with moisture despite the dry air. Symbols were carved into its surface—spirals, jagged lines, and shapes that defied comprehension. The grooves were filled with a dark substance that had dried to a crust, but the smell of it was unmistakable. Blood.
Behind the altar stood a wooden cabinet, its doors slightly ajar, revealing rows of small vials and jars, each labeled in a language none of them recognized. Some of the vials contained powders of varying hues, from crimson red to ashen gray, while others held preserved organs suspended in a clear, gelatinous liquid. The jars were worse—some contained the unmistakable shapes of severed body parts, hands or shriveled eyes, their cloudy pupils staring out blankly.
“This… this isn’t right,” Private Celik muttered, his voice trembling. “What is all this?”
“Stay focused,” Sergeant Yilmaz snapped, though his own voice betrayed his unease. “Search the area. Find anything that explains why this place exists.”
As they moved through the space, the air grew heavier, colder. The stench of blood thickened until it felt like it was coating their lungs. The soldiers began to hear faint noises—scratching, shuffling, whispers that seemed to come from the walls themselves.
Private Kemal stopped suddenly, his flashlight trembling in his hands. “It’s not… it’s not just the smell,” he stammered. “Do you feel it? Like it’s watching us. Whatever… this is—it’s alive.”
No one answered, but they all felt it. The oppressive weight pressing down on them wasn’t just fear—it was something palpable, a presence that seemed to pulse in time with their own racing hearts.
And then they found the coffin.
The coffin loomed in the dim light, an ominous centerpiece that seemed to draw the eye and refuse to let it go. It was unlike any coffin they had ever seen—if it could even be called a coffin. Its surface shimmered faintly, as though it had been encased in molten silver that had cooled and hardened into a smooth, metallic shell. The silver coating was not flawless, though; rivulets of the material had run unevenly down its sides, leaving behind rippling patterns like frozen mercury. Here and there, the silver appeared to have cracked or blistered, exposing glimpses of the dark, almost charred material beneath—wood, perhaps, or something far more ancient and unnatural.
The lid was sealed tightly, its edges fused into the main body of the coffin as if the molten silver had been poured deliberately to imprison whatever lay inside. At each corner, thick iron chains were wrapped around the coffin like the desperate bindings of a prisoner. The chains, too, bore signs of age, their links corroded and pitted, though they still seemed impossibly strong. Each link was as thick as a soldier's wrist, and where the chains met, they were padlocked with massive, rusted locks. The locks themselves were engraved with symbols—jagged, angular lines that twisted into patterns no one could recognize, as though they were designed to repel the eyes and mind.
The inscriptions on the coffin were its most unsettling feature. Covering nearly every inch of the silver surface were carvings etched deep into the metal. The symbols ranged from spiraling glyphs to jagged, intersecting lines, some forming runes or sigils that seemed to hum faintly with an unseen power. They were not simply decorative—they radiated a sense of purpose, of containment, as if they had been placed there to keep something inside. The carvings were precise but uneven, their depths varying as if they had been gouged in a frenzy or in moments of desperate concentration. In the dim light, the soldiers thought they could see faint traces of a dark residue—perhaps blood—that had seeped into the grooves over time, staining the inscriptions like an ancient signature.
At the center of the coffin’s lid was a circular emblem, carved deeper than the other markings, surrounded by concentric rings of runes. The emblem depicted a snarling wolf’s head, its jaws wide open, fangs bared. Its eyes seemed to glint even in the absence of light, as if imbued with a life of their own. Around the wolf’s head, smaller symbols spiraled outward, their shapes growing increasingly abstract and incomprehensible as they radiated from the center.
Despite its intricate carvings and elaborate bindings, the coffin exuded a sense of raw menace, as if its very presence defied the natural order. The silver surface, though dulled with age, still reflected faint glints of light in a way that made it seem alive, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the low thrum that now seemed to fill the air. The soldiers could feel it—a vibration, subtle yet insistent, emanating from the coffin and resonating in their bones. It was as though the object itself had a heartbeat, slow and deliberate, each pulse a quiet warning that whispered: Stay away.
The air around the coffin was cold—colder than the rest of the warehouse, cold enough that frost had formed in a thin layer along the floor surrounding it. The frost spread outward like jagged fingers, creeping toward the soldiers’ boots, and the smell of blood was strongest here. It was no longer just an odor; it was a presence, thick and choking, as if the silver coffin had absorbed centuries of violence and death and was now exuding it back into the air.
Private Demir stepped closer, despite the overwhelming sense of dread that urged him to turn and run. His flashlight beam wavered as his hand shook, but he couldn’t stop himself. He reached out toward one of the chains, the cold radiating from it biting at his skin even before his fingers made contact. The iron was unnaturally cold, a chill that seemed to sink into his bones, and he snatched his hand back with a gasp.
“Sergeant…” Demir’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t be here.”
But none of them moved. They were rooted to the spot, transfixed by the dark shape before them, unable to look away.
Somewhere in the distance, a low, guttural growl echoed through the warehouse. It was not a sound any of them could recognize—a mix of a wolf’s snarl and something far more guttural, far more alien.
And as the soldiers stood frozen, the faintest sound of a heartbeat began to thrum in the air, low and rhythmic, it seemed to be both from nowhere and from the coffin itself.
“This…” Demir whispered, his voice barely audible. “This isn’t just a coffin. It’s a prison.”
“And whatever’s inside,” Corporal Arslan muttered, his voice tight with fear, “it was never meant to get out.”
The heartbeat grew louder, just for a moment, and with it came a sound—a faint, almost imperceptible scraping, like nails dragging against metal. The soldiers froze, their breaths catching in their throats.
The scraping stopped, but the sense of being watched did not. The inscriptions seemed to shimmer faintly, the wolf’s eyes glinting as if to mock their fear.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
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